


see it all

by thingswithwings



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Clothing Kink, Falling In Love, M/M, sexuality and gender are a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: It’s not like David was trying to hide it. The truth of the matter is, he doesn’t wear skirts all that often, doesn’t get the urge all that often, and Patrick just hasn’t known him all that long. A year, Patrick’s known him a year, and David’s wardrobe is extensive; he really wasn’t trying to hide it.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 106
Kudos: 858





	see it all

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write just one more fic before year's end, so here it is! Thanks to eruthros for giving it a very quick once-over for me.

It’s not like David was trying to hide it. The truth of the matter is, he doesn’t wear skirts all that often, doesn’t get the urge all that often, and Patrick just hasn’t known him all that long. A year, Patrick’s known him a year, and David’s wardrobe is extensive; he really wasn’t trying to hide it.

David doesn’t hide, in general. He never has. Even his regrettable goth-punk and candy-raver phases were loud, screamingly so, impossible to miss, and while David no longer feels the awkward baby-queer feelings that he expressed with such regrettable teenaged sartorial choices, he still dresses for himself: to feel beautiful, to feel safe, to feel seen. He wouldn’t know how to change that, anymore than he would know how to change the way he moves his hands or pitches his voice. _God, if David wants people to know he fucks women, why does he act so gay_, he overheard Victoria say once, when she was smoking with Federico outside David’s townhouse, which was probably why David spent the next two weeks seducing her, and why it was so satisfying when he wore a miniskirt and eyeliner and fucked her up against a wall until she came, hard and screaming. David is what he is, he lives how he lives, he fucks who he fucks: he’s not going to apologize for it. Least of all to someone like Victoria.

Sure, he wears those tight acid-wash jeans with the pattern that just happens to show off his dick when he wants to turn Patrick on, and he wears two of his rings on his middle finger when he needs to flip Stevie off with extra vehemence, but there has never been a moment, even in Schitt’s Creek, when he wasn’t dressing for himself. It meant that Jocelyn once assumed he was queer based on a shirt he was wearing, and that literally no one except for his mother and Alexis is able to appreciate his exquisite fashion choices, but the idea of dressing differently never even occurred to him. If anything, given the looks he sometimes got back when they first arrived in town, he was even more determined to wear what he wanted to wear. To protect that part of himself, when so much had fallen down around them. 

So when Stevie mentions it, that weekend when Patrick’s away at a business conference, he’s a little taken aback.

She comes back to the store after his dad breaks the news that he has _poison oak_, bottle of something medical-looking in hand and a grim expression on her face.

“I got it from Ted. It’s technically for pets but he said it’d work on us.”

David glares at her. “Um, no thank you.”

“Okay, fine, keep feeling itchy and red until Patrick gets back.”

David bites his lip, then sighs. “Okay. Whatever. Sure.” 

She squirts some of it into his hands; it smells disgusting, sharp like chemicals and bleach. It’s the kind of thing he would normally ban from the store for disrupting his carefully-curated scent profile, but he really would like to stop his face from looking like it’s going to fall off. When he tentatively dots some of it on his skin, he can almost forgive the smell, because it feels cool and soothing, and the itching goes away immediately. 

As they both cover themselves in the stuff, David can see the redness dissipating on Stevie’s arms, and when he looks in the mirror on the counter, his face already looks better. 

“Thank god,” he mutters. 

“Speaking of your face and all the things that get done to it, when is Patrick getting back?”

David twists his lips over a laugh. “Please do not remind me of my father talking about _makeouts_. Patrick gets back tomorrow.”

“Ah. Got it. Makes sense.”

Turning away from the mirror, he looks over at her sharply. “I’m sorry?”

“Just, you look so _cute_. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in a skirt.” Her voice goes up and down in that way she has, where she says something innocent so pointedly that it becomes devastatingly sarcastic. David’s eyes narrow.

“And what is that supposed to imply?” he demands.

Stevie shrugs. “Nothing.”

Maybe normally David would be less short with her, but it’s been an incredibly frustrating day and he recoils at the idea lurking behind her faux-casual expression. He hears his voice rising even further in pitch. “No, you’re saying that I don’t wear skirts around Patrick on purpose. Which is ridiculous.”

She shrugs again, immune to his tone like she always is, cool and focused, seeing right through him. “If it’s so ridiculous, then why are you wearing a skirt on the one day of the year Patrick’s not in town?”

David feels his face doing a fish-gape thing, and has to consciously snap his jaw closed. 

He deflects instead of answering. “Since when do you pay such attention to what I’m wearing, anyway?”

Stevie smiles at him brightly. “Since I get so turned on whenever I see your hairy knees.”

“Ew.” The response is automatic, but David’s mind is reeling. 

Stevie nods at him, definitely, like she’s made her point and there’s nothing more to say.

“K, I’m gonna go. Keep the bottle. Ted gave me two. He said to limit application to five times daily and to call him if you start chewing on your leg or peeing in the house.”

“Yes yes okay,” David says flatly, annoyed. 

He thinks about it for the rest of the day.

He knows, for sure, that he wasn’t trying to hide anything. But he’s not sure what he knows beyond that.

*

Patrick gets home the following evening, obviously exhausted from the drive but eyes bright when he sees David, walking into the store just as David is closing up. David can’t help but smile back at him. These days, they seem to do that a lot, smile at each other, goofy and weird, like they can’t do it enough. David’s never really felt this way before, about anyone, and he’s certainly never felt it being given back to him, the sensation that Patrick just enjoys being in his presence.

Despite the wonders that Ted’s dog-lotion or whatever have worked, David’s face is still a little red, and Patrick touches two fingers to David’s chin and turns his face so he can see. David obliges, grimacing.

“Long story short, my dad gave Stevie and me poison oak.”

Patrick sucks air through his teeth, wincing, then leans in to kiss David on the unaffected side of his mouth. “Is it contagious?” he asks.

“You ask that after kissing me?”

“I missed you. I’d suffer with you if I had to.” Patrick’s eyes are dancing with their usual teasing glee, but his expression is kind of goopy, too, in a way that makes David feel goopy to match him. 

“The internet says it’s not contagious,” David whispers, and Patrick kisses him again, deeper, for longer.

“You about done closing up? Ray’s got an open house till eight tonight.”

That gives them a blissful three hours to fuck, eat, and cuddle with the house to themselves. David loves when Ray has open houses. He’s worried he’s going to start getting hard at the sight of real estate listings, his Pavlovian response is getting so strong.

“Why, did you have plans for me and my hideous visage?” David asks, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s neck. 

Patrick smiles up at him, guileless, laughing, disbelieving. “David. You couldn’t be hideous if you tried,” he drawls. His hands come up under David’s skirted pants―he’s an expert at that, now, getting that fabric out of the way―and squeeze David’s ass.

His conversation with Stevie from the day before comes back to him, suddenly, and he finds that he wants more; he wants to push up against this feeling, test it.

“No?” he says. “Not even if I showed up in, say, a chicken outfit? White socks with sandals? _Chinos_?”

“David, I wear chinos,” Patrick points out.

“Oh, I’ve noticed.”

Patrick’s huff of a laugh tickles the skin of David’s neck. “Not even that time you straightened your hair.” 

His fingernails scratch gently at the nape of David’s neck, a substitute for actually running his fingers through David’s hair, which he knows isn’t allowed unless they’re alone. Patrick loves running his fingers through David’s hair, and David loves it when he does. They know this about each other, at this point.

“Pardon me, I looked amazing at that performance.”

“I know you did,” Patrick says softly, and kisses him. “That’s what I’m saying.” Another kiss.

“Well. That’s good to know,” David breathes.

*

When they first got together, Patrick said things like _that felt like my first time_, and later he said things like _you make me feel right_, and David felt those moments deeply, that he was the epicenter of Patrick’s queer revelation, that there was something about him that made those feelings finally click together inside of Patrick. He knew it wasn’t really about him―that maybe Patrick would’ve found that, and felt that, if he’d met someone else he was attracted to at just the right point in his life―but he couldn’t help but think it was a little bit about him, because Patrick kept saying it was. 

The first time they had sex, on a towel on Stevie’s bed, Patrick rolled against David’s side afterwards, pressing his face against David’s bicep, and started laughing, quiet and first and then full-throated and pure and loud, laughing and laughing like it was the only way to express what was inside. David looked down at him, amused, fond, watching the crinkles at the corner of his eye and the red swelling of his lips from where he’d sucked David’s cock. David pet his head, his ear, the line of his jaw with its soft, carefully-cultivated stubble.

“I hope that’s not a comment on my performance,” he said, but his anxiety wasn’t in it. It was hard to feel anxious, just then, with Patrick’s palm resting on his stomach and Patrick’s leg on top of his, holding him down, with the sound of Patrick’s joyous laugh breaking against his skin. 

“I just,” Patrick said, opening his eyes, still smiling helplessly. “I’m happy. I’m really happy. And I’m really, really gay.”

“Oh,” David said, laughing a little with him, smile breaking out on his face. “Okay.”

Patrick’s fingers trailed up into David’s chest hair, the hair he used to have waxed regularly so he could be smooth, and soft, and beautiful. “You’re gorgeous,” Patrick said.

David turned his head and kissed him. “So are you.”

Patrick shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “I didn’t know. I never knew it could feel like this.”

“Sex?” David asked, because they’d been making out pretty heavily up until tonight; really the orgasms and the nudity were the only new parts. Not that those parts hadn’t been _fantastic_.

“Yeah, and just . . . intimacy. Closeness. It’s different. It’s different now that I know.”

David’s never really understood monosexuality; he respected that it was how some people felt, but the idea of it, of having feelings that stop based on bodies or genders, has always been hard for him to grasp. There were people he wasn’t attracted to, plenty of them, but never because of what they were, their genitals or presentation or pronouns or whatever criteria other people used to draw those lines. Masculinity could be hot, and femininity, and all the things between and outside and beyond those; it depended on the person, really. But he had been with gay men before, and with straight women, and that had been fine; he told himself that there was no need for him to really get it on a personal level. What mattered was that Patrick felt like himself, with David. That was good.

“I’m glad,” he said, eventually, with feeling. “I’m glad it was good for you, Patrick.”

“It’s so good for me,” Patrick said, peppering David’s face with kisses. “You’re so good for me.”

*

A week or so after the whole poison oak thing, when David’s face is better and he’s having a particularly good leg day, he finds himself grimacing as he looks through his cedar chest. He feels unsettled, dissatisfied, with the rotation he has to choose from. So he heads down to the love room instead, looking through the closet and laying things on the bed one by one.

Really, he knows what he’s looking for. He’s just taking his time, thinking it through, getting it right. 

Maybe, just a little bit, he’s psyching himself up. 

He ends up with the Ada + Nik piece he bought on a whim, not long before his family lost all their money, a two-piece dress with leather gauntlets and waistband, the skirt hitting him just above the knee, a curved visible seam leading the eye up towards his crotch. It’s sleek and beautiful, but not particularly sexy―on a woman it would be a pretty conservative look―but David feels sexy in it, feels right in it.

He wasn’t hiding, before, but he can’t deny that he feels a kind of relief, wearing this, that he hasn’t felt in a while, not even last week when he wore his flappy little black Zara skirt. He thinks about Patrick seeing him in this outfit, and the feeling that comes with that image is more complicated, but there’s relief in that too, mixed in with apprehension and desire and a light sprinkling of absolute dread.

When he gets to the store, Patrick’s helping a customer with the alpaca sweaters, his back to the door, so David slips behind the counter and into the back room to put his bag down. Once he’s there, he feels his nerves zinging with delayed anticipation; he expected Patrick to see him as soon as he walked in, but now he’s here, and Patrick’s out there, and it hasn’t happened. He looks around for something distracting, and his eyes land on some of the new Singles Week merchandise they got in. Patrick was dubious, but David has an instinct for these things. Most of it still needs to be entered into their digital inventory system, so David finds the scanner and starts doing that, hands moving with the routine of it, until he actually calms down. 

He hears the bell, and looks up, since it could be Patrick’s customer leaving or a new one coming in, but when Patrick’s head pokes through the curtain, David knows it was the customer leaving.

“Hey, guess what, I sold one of those sweaters,” Patrick says. David’s facing the shelves, which means Patrick has a full view of his back, his ass, his bare calves; David keeps his feet planted and glances over his shoulder, casually, just in time to catch Patrick stopped in his tracks, eyes flicking down to David’s legs.

“That’s a good start to the day,” David says, blandly. He gives Patrick a little smile, trying to look more confident than he feels. Patrick’s smile back is hesitant.

_I’m really, really gay,_ Patrick has told him, more than once, with joy and belonging echoing through his voice, and what does that mean for what David has to be in order for Patrick to still . . . want him? Be attracted to him?

David wishes, for a moment, that he’d worn makeup too, even though he hasn’t in years, or cuter shoes, or more jewelry, maybe. That he’d gone further. But this is how he wants to be; this is what he is. He’s not performing. He’s just . . . alive, and himself.

“Don’t _you_ look cute today,” Patrick breathes out, after a moment. 

David turns around, feeling some of the tension drain cautiously out of him. He smiles again, and this time it feels more like real confidence behind it. “Do I?”

“You do,” Patrick says, walking up to him, putting a hand on his hip, over the skirt, and kissing him. Then, against his lips, he asks, “Is this a new look?”

David shakes his head, blushing, pleased. “Old one. Felt like it, today.”

“Aren’t I lucky,” Patrick says, and then kisses him one more time before he heads back out to the sales floor. 

Touching his lips, hesitantly, with his fingertips, David feels his smile getting bigger.

*

“Wanna come over tonight?” Patrick asks him later, leaning over the counter and trying to look sultry in that way he has that comes off really silly but just makes David . . . just makes David like him more, somehow. 

“Mmm, for an evening with you and Ray and Vincent?” They’ve had coerced double dates with Ray and Vincent a few times now. David doesn’t actually mind that much; Ray has good taste in romcoms, and Vincent owns a bakery in Elmdale, with all the perks that implies, so those evenings are not the _worst_ dates that he and Patrick ever have. David doesn’t get the sense that Patrick has movie night on the couch in mind, though.

“Ray and Vincent,” Patrick pronounces, gaze slipping down to David’s lips, “are out for the evening.”

David comes closer, leaning over his half of the counter, and Patrick’s hands slide up David’s shoulders, over the rich, soft, black fabric of his top. “Are they,” David whispers.

“I asked them if we could have the house tonight. Hope it wasn’t too presumptuous.”

“Well, in this case, your presumption was correct, so.” David leans in and takes Patrick’s mouth. His heart is going fast, too fast for what they’re doing, and he thinks it’s the feeling of his bare legs sliding together, the reminder that Patrick is kissing him while he’s dressed like this.

Later, they pick up dinner at the café and take it back to Ray’s, eating together like they have so many times before, David stealing Patrick’s fries, Patrick stealing David’s hand, a well-worn pattern that they both like, born of the two of them trying out their preferences together. David likes it, the way they have things they do that aren’t things either of them does on their own, or with other people, just things they share because it’s what the two of them look like together.

They put on a movie, sitting with David cuddled up against Patrick’s chest, but it’s only about ten minutes in when Patrick’s arm moves down from David’s shoulder to his waist, and then his thigh, over the skirt to his knee, then back up a little, fingers playing on the soft skin. David gasps.

“Sensitive?” Patrick asks, kissing his neck. 

“I guess,” David replies. 

“Wanna keep watching?” More kisses, to the nape of his neck, the top of his shoulder where it’s exposed by the wide collar.

“Nope,” David says, brightly, and Patrick laughs. 

Upstairs, Patrick helps David out of the top, the leather gauntlets making difficult work of it, and undresses himself so quickly that David can barely get his hands on him to help. 

“I’ll just take this―” David begins, hands on the zipper to the skirt, and stops when Patrick’s hands land on top of his, stilling the motion.

“Would you,” Patrick says, mouth open, breathing hard, “keep it on?”

David watches him for a long moment. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You look so―I’ve never seen you in anything like this.”

David lifts his hands, takes hold of Patrick’s, lifts one to his mouth so he can kiss Patrick’s palm.

“I wasn’t sure you, uh. Wanted to.”

Patrick walks him backwards towards the bed, confidence in his hips where he presses against David. “What?” he asks.

They’re not words he would ever have said, in any of his previous relationships, but he feels them spilling out from his lips without much resistance. “I wasn’t sure you’d―like this. On me,” he says.

“Lay on the bed for me,” Patrick breathes, and David does, propped up on his elbows, bare-chested and bare-footed, his skirt settling around his thighs.

Patrick’s hands are on him immediately, on his knees, pushing up against the hem of the skirt but not too far, like he wants it up but doesn’t want to see it go. David watches, fascinated, turned on, feeling like his heart is going to beat right through his ribcage.

“I like this on you, David,” Patrick says, swallowing. He’s just wearing his boxer-briefs, and David can see exactly how much he likes it, his cock already hard and straining against the fabric. 

David reaches out a hand, and Patrick takes it so that David can pull him in, pull him down on top of him and feel their bodies together.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” Patrick says, kissing over David’s clavicle, one hand wandering down to cup David’s cock through the skirt. David runs his hands down Patrick’s bare, soft back, then squeezes his ass over his briefs.

“You wanna fuck me with a skirt on?” David asks.

Patrick looks up at him, eyes gleaming. “What do you want?” he asks.

In the months they’ve been together, David’s gradually gotten more used to that question, but now, with this added vulnerability, it feels hard to answer; he closes his eyes and takes a breath, then opens them again. Patrick’s still watching him, waiting, patient, hands rubbing over his thighs, the curve of his hip.

“I want you to suck my cock,” he says. Patrick’s breathing speeds up.

“Yeah,” he says, and he sounds hoarse. “Yeah, that sounds―that sounds good, David, come here.”

Patrick runs his hands up under the skirt to take off David’s underwear, then does his own, too, so that the soft material is the only thing between them. Over top of the fabric, Patrick finds David’s cock and starts to stroke it, so that it rises to tent the skirt obscenely.

“Look at you,” Patrick says. “Look at you, so pretty.”

David cries out, surprised, heat cascading over his skin. Patrick’s never called him that. “Fuck, Patrick,” he pants out, as Patrick keeps stroking him through the soft material. He’s gonna get precome on this piece and he doesn’t even care, it feels so amazing, Patrick’s hand on him driving him wild and Patrick’s eyes on him even hotter, even hotter because Patrick is looking at him like he sees every single part and wants them all.

“Gonna put my mouth on your cock. Gonna suck you down,” Patrick intones, because they’ve been together long enough for Patrick to know that the dirty talk does it for David almost as much as the act itself, and that one after the other is devastating.

Patrick knows him; Patrick knows how to take him apart.

“Please,” David says. “Please, do it, please.”

“I’m gonna take care of you. Gonna make you come in my mouth so you don’t make a mess on this pretty skirt.”

“Yeah? You gonna swallow what I have to give you?” David thrusts up against Patrick’s hand, the skirt giving him too much friction but oh, feeling so good, loving the look of himself hard under the material, loving the way Patrick’s looking down at him and practically drooling.

“Gonna take it all,” Patrick promises, low-voiced, and then crawls down the bed, lifts David’s skirt up, gets underneath it, and breathes on him. His lips just brush the sensitive spot under the head.

David spreads his legs and closes his eyes and cries out, just at that.

“Pull it up so I can see you,” Patrick says, and David does, hikes it up his hips until it’s tight above his cock, around his pelvis. “That’s it. Good.”

Then Patrick’s eyes flutter closed as he sinks down onto David’s cock, lips wide and red, cheeks flushed, hands gripping David’s thighs tight like he doesn’t want to let him get away.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Patrick,” David intones, thrusting up a little to meet him, no more than he knows Patrick can handle, and it makes Patrick groan in his throat, around David’s dick, which makes him thrust again and start the whole beautiful cycle over.

It doesn’t take long, with that image before him, Patrick groaning with David’s cock in his mouth, Patrick’s fingertips working just under the edge of the skirt to caress David’s hipbones. David grabs Patrick’s shoulders hard as he comes, and true to his word, Patrick swallows it all down, nice and neat.

David’s still reeling when Patrick climbs back up the bed, clumsy and uncoordinated, and kisses him, and kisses him, sloppy and desperate.

“That was so good, that was so good for me, Jesus, David, can I―what can I―”

“Fuck my thighs,” David says, the idea forming in his head as the words come out of his mouth, “hike up my skirt and fuck my thighs, Patrick, fuck me―”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, grabbing some lube and slicking himself up. He winces as he does it, obviously too turned on to trust his own hand on his cock, and David kisses him, long and slow, to calm him down. Patrick’s breathing evens out against David’s lips, under David’s palms spread against his chest. 

“Fuck me,” David says again, quieter, and Patrick’s eyes darken as he rolls David over onto his stomach and slicks up his thighs. 

“Open up,” he says, softly. David spreads his legs, as much as the bunched material around his hips will allow, and Patrick sinks down between them, hot and hard, pushing up against David’s balls. It feels good, in that hazy post-orgasm way, to have Patrick taking him like this, just rolling him over and getting off on him, so David does his best to move with him, pushing back against him. He reaches one hand back for Patrick, and gets Patrick’s hand holding his, their fingers interlocking as Patrick thrusts, and thrusts, and squeezes David’s ass through his skirt, and comes with a long, low groan and a kiss to the back of his neck.

They both kind of flail for a minute, limbs everywhere, until Patrick ends up on his back and David flips over to match him, the two of them side by side, still holding hands.

“Shit,” Patrick says, and David agrees until Patrick follows it up with, “that skirt is gonna be messed up, I’m sorry.”

“That’s―that’s okay,” David says. It’ll need a good drycleaning, but David can’t say that he minds. Grimacing, he lifts his hips and wriggles it back down his body, to spare it further wrinkling at least, then pats it smooth with his hands. He doesn’t think there’s that much come on it, actually; most of Patrick’s come ended up on the sheets next to him.

Looking over at him, Patricks eyes follow the paths of David’s moving hands, smoothing over the fabric. 

“You really do look amazing in that,” he says.

“I kind of got that you felt that way,” David nods, trying to cock an eyebrow to make a joke but losing it when he turns his head to meet Patrick’s eyes. “Um. Thank you.”

“You didn’t think I’d like it?”

Of course, of course Patrick remembers stuff like that from the heat of the moment. David knows this about him, but somehow keeps saying revealing things in the heat of the moment anyway. It’s a character flaw.

He takes a breath, trying to gather his thoughts. “I guess I didn’t know if you’d . . . I know you don’t like women, and I’m not―it’s not like wearing a skirt makes you less of a man, or anything like that, god knows, it’s just that, sometimes, you know, some people, they make these arbitrary―and I can be a little, you know, femme, so―”

He trails off as Patrick bends his head to kiss his shoulder, a particular freckle that Patrick always seems to like to kiss. 

“Did you think I was into you because you’re so butch?” Patrick grins, eyes darting up to meet David’s. David rolls his eyes.

“No, but―” he swallows, trying to swallow down the words. They don’t stay down. “I guess I worry there might be something that’s too far for you. Eventually. That I’ll find the thing that’s too much.” _That makes me too much for you,_ he doesn’t quite say.

Patrick shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “I, I love―how you look. What you wear. You’re always just . . . yourself. You know that’s what I thought was hot about you in the first place, right?”

David frowns; he didn’t know that. “But I don’t―what if I’m not always. That.”

Another kiss to his shoulder. David squeezes his hand, trying to hold on to something to get through this conversation. 

“You’re always that,” Patrick says, quietly, like it’s something he knows deep down, like it’s something that can’t be contradicted. “You’re not afraid. It’s really, uh. It’s beautiful, David.” This last like it’s hard to say.

“Okay,” David says.

“You’re hot in a skirt,” Patrick says, voice gaining confidence as he continues. “You’re hot because it’s something you wanted to do and you did it, and you spent the day telling people about wine and shampoo and doing your job while just―wearing what you want. Do you know how much I―how much I, I, admire that? About you? How it feels to watch you just . . . take up space in the world the way you do?”

David’s heart breaks a little, thinking about Patrick spending so many years not taking up space, so many years doing the opposite: shrinking himself down to try to fit into other peoples’ expectations, into neat little boxes that gave him no room to breathe. He raises his free hand to stroke Patrick’s cheek, down to his jaw, and then kisses him. He takes his time with it, lips moving slowly, tongue just pushing into Patrick’s mouth, letting himself live inside this kiss they get to have, now that Patrick’s found his way here, now that David can be who he wants to be around him.

“I want to see you wear whatever you want to wear,” Patrick whispers against his skin, when that kiss ends, before the next one begins: “I want to see it all.”

David’s starting to believe him.

*

The next day, at the store, Patrick takes David by the shoulders, and looks him in the eye, and tells him he loves him.

It doesn’t take David long to believe that, either.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's](https://www.vogue.co.uk/shows/autumn-winter-2014-menswear/ada-nik/collection) the Ada + Nik collection I'm talking about. Just try to tell me that leather gauntleted sweatertop dress at the top isn't 1000% David's aesthetic.


End file.
